


Concrete Will

by rebecca_selene



Category: Fallout 3, Fallout 4
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Fantastic Racism, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-31
Updated: 2018-03-31
Packaged: 2019-04-16 06:40:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14158998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rebecca_selene/pseuds/rebecca_selene
Summary: Fawkes and Jillian stumble upon an unsettling group in the Commonwealth.





	Concrete Will

**Author's Note:**

> written for [](https://fffc.dreamwidth.org/profile)[fffc](https://fffc.dreamwidth.org/) Spring Bingo Card Special Challenge #45 prompt: [](https://imgur.com/R7DzTgw/)

“Get _down_ , Jill!” Fawkes shoved the former vault dweller into the shelter of a concrete column. Tearing his eyes away from the wince on Jillian’s face and the blood staining her right shoulder, he peeked around the column to watch the approaching group of ten people. Sunlight filtering in through the abandoned warehouse’s broken windows glimmered on their helmets and power armor. Fawkes and Jillian had recognized them as Brotherhood immediately, and in turn the Brotherhood had recognized him as enemy. The shots started without a word.

“Let the woman go.” Fawkes couldn’t tell which helmeted figure had spoken, but he presumed it was the leader of this particular group. He sighed, shoulders slumping. Same shit, different day.

“I’m not a prisoner!” Jillian yelled. She pushed her back against the column for balance and struggled to stand.

Fawkes grasped her waist, helping her. “Jillian, you should—” His movement exposed more of his massive bulk, and a bullet grazed his arm. He hissed.

“Are you _deaf_?” Tears welling in her eyes, Fawkes couldn’t tell if from pain or frustration or both, Jillian angled her head toward the middle of the vast warehouse. “I said I’m not a prisoner, you imbeciles. I thought the Brotherhood had more discipline than shooting first and asking questions later.”

A mirthless laugh rang through the humid air, closer to their position than Fawkes would have preferred. “Shooting mutants _is_ discipline. Also fun. Besides, we already know how mutants answer questions.” Roughening the tone of his voice, he shouted, “ _KILL THE HUMANS. KILL THEM ALL._.” The man chuckled again, this time joined by several others.

The weight of Fawkes’ Gatling laser dug into his spine, and Jillian’s arsenal adorned her hips, but a quick meeting of their gazes confirmed they were thinking the same thing: there was no way they could defeat ten fully armored Brotherhood before being riddled with bullets themselves. Jillian swayed slightly and gripped his arm for balance. “Ask Arthur Maxson,” she said. “He can vouch for us.”

Fawkes remembered learning through traders that the young squire they had known so many years ago had become Elder. They hadn’t intended to cross ways with the Brotherhood when they ventured so far from home, but such unexpectedness was the life of wanderers, apparently.

Any hope Fawkes started to feel at the name drop vanished as quickly as the laughter died. “We do not answer to that…that spineless, idealistic _weakling_ ,” the leader spat icily. “Any who call him friend are no friend to us.”

Jillian met Fawkes’ eyes, her pained expression slowly melting into the first true fear he had seen her show since her father had locked himself in the activation chamber at Jefferson Memorial. They had been through much since that day, but they had always faced the dangers together and gotten through. If today was to be their last, Fawkes was grateful to have had what they did. “Jillian…” he started, reaching for his laser.

She blinked away tears and broke eye contact, her left hand moving toward her pistol. But then, with a sharp gasp, she stopped, her other hand squeezing Fawkes’ arm.

Very aware of the rustling and creaking sounds that no doubt signaled advancing Brotherhood troops, he nevertheless followed her gaze toward the warehouse wall. Graffiti both faded and fresh fought for dominance over the space. Debris and detritus lay scattered across the damp concrete floor, and interspersed among the waste stood mounds of tightly packed mud and twigs nestling white oval shapes.

Mirelurk eggs.

Jillian pointed her pistol at the nest and fired. Fawkes couldn’t tell if she intended to miss the eggs or if a combination of shooting with her non-dominant hand and the effects of continual blood loss destroyed her aim, but it didn’t matter. Just as Brotherhood figures came into view, popping and squelching noises erupted around the warehouse. Within seconds, furious mirelurk adults attacked to defend their nests.

The Brotherhood shifted their muzzles toward the oncoming creatures, bullets pinging ineffectually off their hard shells. Fawkes and Jillian used the distraction and the cover of the columns to run back to the warehouse entrance and into fresh air. Without discussion, they headed for the nearby town.

Jillian stumbled upon reaching the first row of boarded-up houses, grimacing and clutching her shoulder. Before Fawkes could react, she fell to her knees, breathing heavily, normally tawny face pale and beaded with sweat. “Shit,” she murmured, shaking her head as if trying to clear it. Fawkes scooped her into his arms and lumbered on, searching for an ideal place to take shelter.

No signs of pursuit appeared, but adrenaline and Jillian’s increasing limpness spurred Fawkes to choose a house, any house. He decided on a corner one only a couple streets into the town, shifted Jillian so that he could wrench away the board over the back door, and went inside.

Pots, dishes, and utensils littered the floor and counters. Fawkes passed through to the living room and lay Jillian gently onto a couch. Most of her gray shirt was stained red, but he knew he had to secure their location before he could tend to the wound. He wrestled the board back into place across the doorway as best he could and hoped the house looked like no one had been inside for many years.

“Jillian?” he whispered as he rummaged through their packs for medical supplies. She didn’t respond.

After peeling off her leather coat, Fawkes had room to cut away her destroyed shirt. Wincing at the torn flesh, he cleaned the wound, bandaged it, applied a couple of Stimpaks. Other than an occasional tightening of her closed eyes or hitched breath, Jillian made no movement. When he finished, Fawkes tried not to jostle her too much as he dressed her in a spare tank top. Then he sat next to the couch, listened for sounds of approach outside, and monitored her breathing while waiting for her to wake.

When she shifted toward him, hours later, Fawkes’ heart lurched. Despite the dim light in the room coming through cracks in the boarded windows, he could tell that some color had returned to her cheeks, though her eyes when she opened them were glassy and unfocused.

“Here.” He lifted her into a sitting position, took up a place on the couch next to her, and put a bottle of purified water to her lips. “Drink. Small sips.”

She drank, relaxing against him as she slowly drained the bottle. The empty container fell to the floor, and he held her close, breathing in the scent of her hair, reveling in the warmth of her body.

It was some time before she asked, “What happened?”

“What do you remember?”

“Mirelurks. Running. Did the Brotherhood come after us?”

“If they did, they went the wrong way. I have not heard anything out there.”

“How long have we been here?”

“About half a day.”

Jillian snorted. “Is that all? It feels like years have gone by.”

“How do you feel?”

She was silent a moment. “Tired. My shoulder hurts. Hungry.”

Fawkes leaned down for his pack and grabbed a bag of molerat jerky. “Here.” She opened the bag and ate small pieces using her left hand. “We cannot stay here long.”

“I know.” She sighed. “I guess it was a mistake to leave Megaton.”

“You wanted to see more of the world. One bad day does not negate the past months of discovery.”

“We nearly died today.” She shifted her right arm and winced. “And I’m not as young as I used to be. I don’t heal as well, I’m not as quick.” She shook her head. “And the world is changing so fast. The Brotherhood in the Commonwealth are not what I expected.”

Fawkes nodded. “I have been thinking about this. I am not sure the group we met are the true Brotherhood.”

Jillian lay back, head in his lap and looking up at him. Fawkes was pleased to see that her eyes were more lively and alert, though the creases on her forehead and around her eyes had deepened. “What do you mean?”

“Everything we knew about Arthur as a child and from passing traders suggests he is fair and tolerant. The people we met today are not that at all, and they denounced him as their leader.”

Jillian grew thoughtful. “The Brotherhood has had a rocky and divided history. They must be from another faction following the old, more brutal teachings of the Brotherhood.”

“Arthur should be told about them.”

She focused on his face, eyebrows raised. “You think he doesn’t know?”

“Perhaps. Perhaps not.”

After a long moment, she said quietly, “I want to go home.”

Fawkes smiled. “Then we shall go home, love.”

“Ugh!” Jillian rolled her eyes and sighed heavily. “But you’re probably right. Arthur _should_ know, so he can stop those masqueraders from attacking innocent people.” And there it was again, that spark, that persistence that had led them to this moment and made him fall in love with her long ago.

She glanced at her shoulder, then struggled to sit up on her own. “Woah, there.” Fawkes laid a hand on her chest, effectively keeping her pinned just by its weight. “You lost a lot of blood today. You are not going anywhere. We can make big decisions tomorrow.”

“First you want to go marching off to the Brotherhood, then you want to go home, then you want to stay here,” Jillian grumbled. She started to cross her arms, winced, and stopped. “Make up your mind, will you?”

“I will go where you go, Jillian. Happily. You know that.”

She looked up at him, expression soft, and placed a hand on top of his. “Of course I do, love.”

“Get some rest. I have a feeling you are going to need it.”


End file.
